Looking in the Mirror
by Joodiff
Summary: Set early S5. An unpleasant incident causes Grace to question her future, and Boyd isn't happy about the decision she comes to. Complete. T for language and adult themes. Boyd/Grace. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

**Looking in the Mirror**

By Joodiff

* * *

><p>It's early afternoon on a bright, sunny weekday in London, and Grace Foley is making the most of her last few days on leave. She's just had lunch with an old friend at Camden Lock, and now she is walking alone beside the canal, enjoying the warm sun. Her plan is to walk by the water for a while before heading south to Camden Town tube station. From there, she can take the Northern Line home. She's feeling good – two weeks of peace and quiet have rejuvenated her. Soon, though, she will be back at work, but the thought doesn't make her spirits drop. Smiling slightly to herself, she imagines being back with the colleagues that have become like a second family to her – albeit a strange and dysfunctional one.<p>

Preoccupied with her thoughts, she barely notices the small group of teenagers ahead of her. Why should she? There are six or seven of them, maybe more, a couple of girls and the rest boys. They are unexceptional in every way, dressed in a mix of jeans and cheap sports clothing. Several are smoking, and one of the girls has a bottle of cheap white wine. They are simply hanging around by the bridge, talking and laughing and taking time to enjoy the sun, just as Grace is.

Many years living in London have taught Grace to be circumspect. It does not occur to her to speak to them, to wish them good afternoon, or ask them what they are up to. Maybe she unconsciously tightens her grip a little on her bag, but there is no fear in her as she approaches them. One of the boys, tall, dark-haired and good-looking, glances disinterestedly in her direction, and instinctively steps back to allow her to pass. Grace holds her course, neither speeds up nor slows, just keeps walking. Snatches of their conversation filter through to her. Teenage bravado, sex, music… perfectly ordinary.

Another of the boys steps back unexpectedly. It is not his fault, he has not noticed Grace at all. She veers to avoid colliding with him, and accidentally jostles the girl with the wine bottle.

The response is immediate and aggressive, a snarl of anger that takes the form of, "Watch where you're going, you fucking stupid old bag!"

Grace is a psychologist. Grace perceives immediately that she is now being regarded with real hostility, that she is suddenly at the centre of a potentially explosive situation. Still, she is not afraid – but she understands the wisdom of attempting to defuse the situation. She says, "I'm sorry… I was miles away. My fault."

It is not enough. The day is long and sunny, and the teenagers are bored. There is testosterone in the air, generated no doubt by the presence of the girls.

She girl with the bottle gives Grace a hard shove, says, "Stupid bitch."

Grace staggers slightly, but that's all. She regains her balance, and although she is a little shocked, she remains as non-confrontational as possible, and she starts to walk. It is the other girl, not one of the boys, who instantly blocks her path. The girl says, "She make you spill your drink, Em?"

Em smirks and deliberately tips the bottle, allowing a little of the contents to spill, "Fucking clumsy old cow."

And at that moment, and from nowhere, Grace is suddenly afraid. More afraid than she has ever been when dealing with some of the most dangerous and disturbed individuals in the country. And the fact that she realises she's afraid makes her even more frightened, even more vulnerable. Suddenly, all her strength and optimism are gone, and she feels old, alone and defenceless. She hopes, more than anything, she will suddenly see one of her colleagues running to her rescue – but that is, of course, a fantasy. They are all at least a couple of miles away, hard at work and utterly oblivious to her plight.

"Hey, old lady," one of the boys – the dark, handsome one – says. "You got no manners, or what?"

Someone else laughs. Possibly, they don't actually mean any real harm, possibly they are just enjoying a moment of cruel sport. But as another of them deliberately jostles her, Grace is genuinely frightened, and that's when the whole world changes for her.

-oOo-

Grace knows when she doesn't answer the persistent telephone calls that there will eventually be a sharp knock on her front door. It comes on the Friday evening, three days after the incident by the canal. She doesn't want to answer the brusque summons, but she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that her visitor won't give up. There is nothing she can do except face him and attempt to ride out the storm.

"Boyd," she says in greeting as she opens the door.

He doesn't look happy. Far from it. Unnecessarily loudly, he demands, "Do you want to tell me what the fuck's going on?"

"You've had my letter, then," Grace says calmly. She steps back, "Come in. I'm not discussing this on the doorstep."

"I've had a bitch of a day, and I don't appreciate not having my calls returned," Boyd starts, genuine anger quite evident in both his tone and his stride. He stops, looks at her properly in the unforgiving glare of the hall light, "Christ, Grace, what the hell's happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Grace tells him shortly. "Just a couple of minor cuts and bruises. I fell."

The intensity of his gaze doesn't lessen. His tone is sceptical as he says, "You fell? How? How exactly did you fall?"

"I was out walking and I fell. It happens, Boyd. Do you want a drink?"

"No," he says. "No, I don't want a fucking drink, I want to know what's going on. One minute I'm expecting you back at work on Monday, the next I'm opening a letter informing me that you're going to write to the Home Office to ask them to terminate your contract with the Met. And then you answer the door looking like you've gone ten rounds with Joe Calzaghe."

"Well, I'm having a drink, even if you're not," Grace informs him, walking past him to the living room door.

Pouring herself another glass of wine, she watches him pace into the room after her. She's sure it's some kind of optical illusion, but somehow he always manages to look even bigger than he really is in the small, cosy room. She settles herself into her favourite chair, says, "Are you going to sit down?"

He ignores her, and she watches him run his fingers through his hair, watches him make a visible and concerted effort to calm down. After a moment or two, he finally says, "Will you just tell me what the hell's going on?"

Carefully, Grace says, "I've just had some time to think about things, that's all."

"And…?" Boyd asks, finally seating himself on the very edge of the sofa.

"Sometimes things… change."

"Of course they change, that's the nature of life," he says, sounding brusque. There's a long pause. He says, "Come on, Grace, talk me through whatever crazy idea it is that's got into your head."

Grace studies the red wine in her glass. She says, "If I asked you, as a friend, not as a colleague, to just accept my decision without asking questions, would you?"

"That's not fair, Grace, and you know it."

"But would you? For my sake?"

Boyd studies her for several long moments. He sighs, says, "Perhaps, but I'd have to ask myself, as a friend, why you felt you couldn't discuss it with me. Right now I'm tired, concerned and very confused. I have no fucking clue what I've supposed to have done to upset you. This time."

Grace genuinely feels sorry for him. Quietly, she says, "You haven't done anything."

"Well, obviously I have, otherwise we wouldn't be having this idiotic conversation. I just can't work out what it is."

"Not everything's about you, Boyd," Grace tells him, a little too sharply.

He stands up abruptly, and for a second she's certain he's going to walk out. He doesn't. Instead, he takes off his long coat and hangs it over the nearest chair. His suit jacket follows. Without a word, he pours himself a drink and sits back down in his shirtsleeves. He says, "I may be tired, but I can wait all night, if necessary."

"You don't want to do this," Grace warns him.

Deep, dark eyes regard her steadily, "You're right, I don't. But I will. And you know I will. Start talking, Grace."

Grace shakes her head, "You really don't want to hear it."

"Try me."

"Boyd, I know you. You won't sit there and listen quietly, you'll get angry and we'll both end up feeling terrible."

Boyd doesn't say anything, just sits and watches her. Grace glares back, but she knows he will win eventually. He doesn't have her equable patience, but he is far, far more stubborn than she is. Finally, she says, "All right, have it your own way. But don't blame me when you end up ranting and raving. And I'm only telling you this as a friend, not as a colleague – and I want you to respect that..."

-oOo-

Bizarrely, it's the fact that he remains abnormally calm and quiet that unsettles Grace the most. She can see the increasing tightness of his jaw, the immense tension building in his shoulders, but the predicted explosion doesn't come. In fact, she begins to wonder if he's going to say anything at all. In the end, she finishes, "I think it was the wake-up call I needed. I've been kidding myself for far too long that I still have something valuable to contribute, that I'm not just filling in time as I plod my way wearily towards retirement."

Silence. Deafening, absolute silence.

Grace sighs. She says, "Boyd – "

"Is that what you really think?" Boyd interrupts, and there's a clear note of anger in his deep voice. "For God's sake, Grace, you're the best criminal profiler I know of. You're telling me that after all these years, after everything you've achieved and everything you've seen and done, you're really going to let a chance encounter with a bunch of rowdy kids shatter your confidence?"

Grace feels her own temper start to rise as she lashes back with, "I was frightened, Boyd. Really, really frightened. Maybe you don't know how that feels, but the rest of us don't have that luxury."

"I know exactly what it's like to be frightened," he says tersely. And maybe he does, at that. "Okay, Grace. Let me tell you exactly what's going to happen now. I'm going to call Albany nick, and they're going to go through every piece of CCTV that covers the canal. I'm going to personally see to it that the little bastards get exactly what's coming to them, and you – "

"Boyd," Grace snaps at him. "Why do you never, ever listen? I'm not reporting a crime; I'm telling a friend – under duress, I may add – the reasons for a decision I've made. That's all. I don't want to make a statement, I don't want a manhunt for a few boisterous teenagers, I don't want anything to do with any of it. I just want you to accept that I've made up my mind."

"Jesus Christ, Grace – " Boyd says, his voice raising.

Too tired to care, Grace says irritably, "Oh, that's right. Throw all your toys out of your pram – that's what you do best, isn't it, Boyd?"

They glare at each other across the few feet of space separating them.

"And that's your last word, is it?" Boyd finally demands, standing up quickly. "You get roughed up by a couple of kids, and suddenly it's the end of the world as we know it? It doesn't matter that you're incredibly good at your job, or that there's a whole fucking team of people counting on you? No, because, hey, you're feeling old and tired and sorry for yourself, and that's obviously the perfect justification for jacking it all in!"

"Get out," Grace tells him as a strange sort of calm descends on her. "This is my house, not your office, and that means I really don't have to put up with you being a selfish, immature bastard."

"Not any more you don't," he says, snatching up his coat and jacket.

Grace watches him stride angrily from the room. The front door slams loudly, and a few moments later there's a snarl of engine noise and a brief squeal of tyres out in the street.

_Well, that went well,_ an independent, ironic voice in her head says.

-oOo-

"I really don't care what DSI Boyd said," Grace tells the young police officer who arrives at her front door less than an hour later. He has a harried look about him that suggests he is not having the best evening of his life and that he really doesn't want to hear that she's unwilling to cooperate with him. Ignoring the temptation to feel sorry for him, she says, "Look, I'm sorry you've had to waste your time coming here, but I have no intention of talking to you or anyone else about any alleged assault."

"But DSI Boyd – "

"I will speak to DSI Boyd myself," Grace tells the young man. "This won't reflect on you in any way. There's just been a misunderstanding, that's all. Good night, officer."

"But, Doctor Foley – "

"Good night," she repeats and closes the front door. She waits, and after a moment she hears his retreating footsteps. She can only imagine the firestorm that will engulf him when he reports his lack of success to his own DCI, who will then have to deal directly with Boyd. She doesn't doubt that there will be serious repercussions.

Tired and more than a little depressed, Grace retreats to bed. It seems the best option.

-oOo-

Saturday morning brings a Detective Inspector Clive Todd to her door, accompanied by a very young and wary-looking female DC who hardly says a word throughout the brief conversation Grace holds with them in her hallway. Todd doesn't seem to be the kind of man who's easily intimidated by anyone, and it soon becomes clear that he's very well aware of Peter Boyd's renowned temper, but is apparently unfazed by it. He listens to her, and then he goes away, taking his DC with him. Grace waits expectantly, but the hours slowly pass and no further police officers appear on her doorstep. She half expects Boyd to send Spencer or even Stella to attempt to extract a statement from her, but no-one comes. Grace is glad… and ever so slightly hurt. She waits for the telephone to ring, but when it does it's only a call centre offering to sell her cheap replacement windows. Clearly, Boyd hasn't shared the details of their previous night's encounter with anyone from the CCU.

Eventually, she calls the main switchboard number for the unit, ready to supply a plausible excuse should anyone think to ask exactly why she's calling on a Saturday. A sharp click on the line tells her that her call has been diverted, and a few seconds later Spencer's voice says, "CCU, DI Jordan."

"Spence," Grace says in surprise. "What are you doing there?"

"Trying to get on top of my in-tray," he says, a grin evident in his voice. "How are you, Grace?"

"I'm fine," she lies. "Spence, I was just wondering, is Boyd there?"

"Nope, and don't bother trying him at home, because he's on a shout in Woolwich with Felix – bunch of council guys turned up some human bones that could be connected to the Wrightson case. I offered to go, but he was nearer, apparently."

"Okay, thanks, Spence."

"Anything I can help with?"

Grace shakes her head, aware that he can't see the motion, "No, it wasn't important. It'll keep."

Sounding cheerful, Spencer says, "No worries. See you Monday."

Feeling more than a little guilty, she ends the call.

-oOo-

That Boyd will appear at her door again is as inevitable as night following day. Grace has known him for more than long enough to predict his behaviour perfectly. He gets angry, he loses control, he calms down. Sometimes he apologises. There is no doubt in her mind that he will arrive, sooner or later. The waiting, though, is stressful. She debates going out and leaving him to pound on the door of an empty house, but the truth is he's right – the events of that sunny afternoon have badly shaken her confidence, and she doesn't relish facing the dark streets alone.

It's far later than she actually expects when her telephone finally rings. Eying it warily, she picks up with, "Hello?"

"I'm outside in the car," Boyd's voice announces. "I'm about to come and knock on your door."

"And you're telling me this because…?"

"If you don't answer it, I'm coming through it, and that will seriously piss both of us off."

Grace knows he isn't bluffing, and she knows he's more than capable of physically shouldering his way in – she's seen him do it in the line of duty often enough. Although, admittedly only when there's no-one else around to be delegated into providing the necessary muscle. On principle, however, she says, "Go away, Boyd."

"I'm only knocking once," he says, and the line goes dead.

There's something faintly admirable about Boyd's obstinacy, however frustrating it can often be. Sometimes she wishes she has far greater immunity to his good points. Sighing in annoyance, Grace gets up and goes out into the hall, catching sight of herself in the mirror as she goes. She looks, she thinks, even worse than she feels. Bruised, old, and very definitely haggard. It's not at all good for her self-esteem. There's a sharp rap on the door. A distinctive police officer's knock, conveying a very clear, time-honoured message.

Grace opens the door and looks out at him, "Well?"

"We need to talk, Grace."

"We did talk. And, as always, it ended up with you shouting."

He tilts his head slightly, "And being a being 'a selfish, immature bastard', yes, I got that bit. Are you going to let me in?"

Grace doesn't move, just asks, "Are you going to at least attempt to listen to me?"

He gives her a faint, rueful sort of grin and says, "I'm going to try."

Grudgingly, "Come in, then."

Boyd doesn't look much better than she does, Grace realises as he steps into the light. He looks tired and irritable, and under the ever-present topcoat he's dressed in a casual shirt and old jeans. Grace finds the sight faintly incongruous. It must be weekend uniform, she thinks. Definitely. Bearded, and with his hair slightly tousled by the evening breeze, he manages to look positively… unkempt. The complete antithesis of his usual, dapper, well-groomed appearance. Pointedly, she asks, "Have you decided that dressing down for crime scenes is now _de rigueur_, Boyd?"

Boyd looks faintly bewildered, "Crime scenes…? Oh, you mean Woolwich? Give me a break, Grace, I was shopping."

She raises her eyebrows at him, "Shopping? You?"

He gives her a look, "Apparently it's this thing normal people do at the weekend. You know – the thing which guarantees there's always a beer in the fridge when you need one."

"I know what shopping is, I'm just amazed that you do," Grace says. She points him in the direction of the living room and asks, "Would you like to tell me why I've had a succession of nervous police officers at my door over the last twenty-four hours?"

"I told you I was calling it in."

"And I told you I didn't want you to."

Boyd holds his hands up in a placatory gesture, "I didn't come here to get into another fight with you, Grace."

Biting back a suitably sarcastic reply, she moves past him and takes position once again in her favourite chair. It doesn't escape her notice that his takes his coat off automatically, nor that he returns to the same spot on the sofa he had occupied just the night before. Ignoring the sense of _déjà vu_, Grace begins to talk.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Looking in the Mirror (continued)**

Perhaps because this time he tries so hard to listen, Grace says far more than she intends, thoughts and regrets and insecurities all flowing together into a single focused stream. As she continues to speak, an oddly detached part of her is amazed at how unusually patient he manages to be, but the same part of her easily recognises the way his expression takes on a darker, more brooding edge. But it's too late to stop. She keeps talking, navigating her way slowly and painfully through the labyrinth, knowing that she must reach the end before she can find any hope of equilibrium.

Boyd is not a psychologist – that's her job – but he has the natural instincts of a born investigator, and he's very used to distilling hundreds of words into a few solid facts. And eventually he simply says, "This is all just so much bollocks, Grace."

She isn't sure whether to laugh or cry, whether to hit him or hug him. And maybe he sees the dilemma written on her face, because he continues, "This is all to do with one simple thing – your own perception."

"That's very profound, Boyd," Grace says dryly, and she isn't sure if she's angry or not.

His gaze is unnaturally intense, and it makes her uncomfortable. She realises she has absolutely no idea what's going through his mind. It's true his thought-processes are often obscure and convoluted, but usually she's able to make some kind of educated guess about what he's thinking. Not this time. He's utterly unreadable.

It startles her when he stands up abruptly, and it astonishes her when he steps towards her and extends a hand. Grace has no idea what he's intending and she hesitates. Quietly, he says, "Trust me."

She does. Implicitly. Sometimes she doesn't approve of him or his methods, and sometimes he frustrates her beyond any normal level of endurance, but she trusts him. Still, there is anxiety in her, in the way she takes his hand so very, very tentatively. Boyd's fingers close around hers, and his grip is perfectly calculated – strong enough to prevent her from breaking away, gentle enough not to cause any hint of discomfort. What really frightens Grace, though, is the tiny shockwave the sudden, unanticipated contact sends up her arm. Silently, she rebukes herself. There are some things… some emotions… that she simply can't bring herself to confront.

Effortlessly, he raises her to her feet, and for one crazy – and completely mistaken – moment, she thinks perhaps he's going to pull her into an embrace. He doesn't. Boyd doesn't loosen his grip, but where their hands aren't joined there's a lot of distance between them. Grace realises she's witnessed this, or something very like it, before. It's the same quiet, steady compassion he, in his role as a police officer, is quite capable of showing towards the distressed and the traumatised. Enough to offer reassurance and support, not enough to trespass on any boundaries. And she reacts the way she's seen others react before her, unconsciously drawing on his strength, on whatever it is in him that speaks silently of a tough, no-nonsense dependability. Maybe it's the first time she is able to comprehend on a purely instinctive level why those who have been thoroughly brutalised and victimised are usually willing to eventually put their trust in him.

Gently enough, he leads her back into the hallway, increasing her confusion. He stops and releases her hand, immediately putting both of his on her shoulders, turning her away from him. Turning her to face her biggest critic. The woman in the mirror stares back at her, expression bewildered. Boyd's tall enough to stand right behind her and still gaze into the glass himself, and just for a moment their eyes lock unerringly in the mirror – clear blue eyes, dark brown eyes, one single, steady gaze.

His voice is remarkably soft, pitched somewhere in the lower registers, "Look at yourself, Grace. What do you see?"

She looks, but she already knows what she sees. A woman whose best years are behind her. A woman who knows that men no longer notice her. A woman who feels she is in mortal danger of becoming completely invisible. A woman who seems to be growing older and more careworn by the day. The mirror is merciless, she knows that. She sees every line, every imperfection, however small. And she wonders what happened to the feisty young woman who used to look back at her.

Grace can't answer his question. How can she? Not only is he younger than her, but he is, after all, a man. And every passing year just seems to make him more ruggedly good-looking, just as every grey hair seems to make him look even more distinguished. And Boyd, she is quite sure, does not remotely feel his age. He still seems to have boundless energy and drive, still seems just as capable of boisterousness and unpredictability as he ever was. The years don't seem to be crushing him the way they are slowly threatening to crush Grace. There is nothing she can say, and it's only his grip, gentle but firm, that keeps her from turning away from the painful truth.

"Tell me what you see," Boyd persists.

He will push until she answers him, Grace knows, and his tenacity piques her. Sharply, she says, "I see what you see, Boyd. A lonely, pathetic old woman who lives for her work and her research because there's nothing else anymore."

His grip on her shoulders tightens almost imperceptibly. He says, "That's not what I see."

She stares at him in the mirror, trying to fathom the unfathomable in the depths of his eyes, and he looks back at her, utterly calm and self-possessed. Grace is still unable to even guess at his thoughts, but she thinks she understands his motivations. He does not want to lose a good profiler. It's that simple. The CCU is Boyd's, has always been Boyd's, and he guards it and its staff with all the territorial ferocity of a true alpha male. She knows he will stop at very little to get his own way. What Peter Boyd wants, Peter Boyd generally gets, one way or another. And he wants her back in her office, back behind her desk. Where she will quietly grow older and more shadowy until there is nothing left of her at all.

He lowers his head, speaks softly into her ear, "Do you want to know what I see?"

"No," she tells him quickly with all the force she can muster. She doesn't want to suffer the cruelty of his lies, nor does she want to face the things in herself that she doesn't want to see. She tenses, subtly testing her strength against his grip, but he doesn't release her.

Boyd ignores her, says, "I see _you_, Grace. Everything you are, everything you can be. Intelligent, courageous, compassionate – "

Grace interrupts him quickly, harshly, "This is pointless. Worse, it's cruel. I'm not – "

"Cruel?" Boyd says, and his tone is quizzical, but it becomes more impatient with, "For God's sake. Do you have any idea how ridiculous all this 'old woman' crap is? Look in the damned mirror, will you?"

Despite herself, Grace does. And she finds she can only stare at him, not at herself. Boyd's head is still low, and he's watching her intently; and the moment he sees her focus on him, he leans in closer. It's very slow and very deliberate, the way he runs his jaw up her neck and there's absolutely no mistaking the movement for what it is. It's blatant, it's erotic and it's completely devastating. Grace sees it in the mirror, feels it against her skin. She thinks it should feel harsh, that contact, like the rasp of morning stubble, but it doesn't. Not at all. His beard is soft and his skin is warm, and the look in his eyes tells her he knows exactly what he's doing.

It's wonderful, it's terrifying, and it lasts just a couple of heartbeats, but against her will she has the scent of him, a mix of underlying soap, a trace of something sharper and more expensive, and a dangerous hint of something much more natural, much more primal. Much more… male… in fact. Her stomach tenses into a hard, anxious knot, and instinct alone forces her to make a determined bid for freedom, and this time he releases her and she rounds on him angrily, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Boyd?"

The only answer he gives her is a slow smile that's as amused as it is wicked, but it's the clear devilment in his eyes that causes her to lash out in a moment of completely uncharacteristic rage. And Grace Foley, who has never hit anyone in her entire life, slaps him with enough force to snap his head back on his shoulders. It's a single moment of insanity, driven by all the fear and rage and frustration twisting inside her.

Boyd rides the blow easily enough, makes absolutely no attempt to retaliate. He turns his head back slowly, looks straight at her, and the deliberate provocation is gone from his eyes. But the smile remains, and if anything it's even more amused. Softly, he says, "Catharsis, Doctor?"

Mortified by her action, Grace says, "Boyd – "

Perhaps his reaction is entirely predictable. Perhaps not. Grace isn't really sure. All she really knows is that suddenly she's being very thoroughly kissed and that it only takes her a split-second to break every self-imposed rule she's ever made and respond with equal fervour and enthusiasm. There might be a distant part of her mind strenuously trying to remind her of the identity of the man she's kissing so fiercely and without a single inhibition, but if there is, she's absolutely not listening to it. He's just a man, after all. Who – or more correctly, what – he is doesn't matter, not at that moment.

She isn't ready for Boyd to break away from her, but he does, and he takes her shoulders again, not quite as gently as before, and turns her back towards the mirror. He says, "Now what do you see…?"

Grace sees fire. She sees passion and want and need. She sees things in herself that she hasn't seen for a long, long time. She sees all things she's refused to acknowledge, things she's sublimated for a long, long time. She sees the truth of how much she wants him reflected clearly in her eyes, in the wide dilation of her pupils. The things she sees shock her. The woman in the mirror is carrying a fair number of years, true, but there's something… vibrant… about her, something that's –

"Beautiful," Boyd says, and it's as if he has stolen from her the word she could never, ever bear to apply to herself. And there is nothing feigned about the sudden huskiness in his voice. "Christ, just look at yourself, Grace. You've got it all – beauty, brains… Don't give me this 'too old and tired' crap. You're coming back to work tomorrow if I have to drag you there myself."

Work. Of course. For an instant Grace inwardly curses herself for her moment of complete naivety. For forgetting, just for a split-second or two, that Peter Boyd is shamelessly Machiavellian when it comes to getting his own way. Forcibly, she pulls away from him, putting a good distance between them, and she can't – doesn't want to – suppress the anger in her voice as she says, "Get out. Get out of my house. Now!"

With anyone else it might, just might, have worked. Not with Boyd. He's simply too fiery, too hot-blooded not to react in kind, and as his temper rises so does the volume of his voice, "Like fuck I will…"

In the future, and with the benefit of hindsight, Grace may recognise this as the moment when everything between them changes forever. But that time is yet to come, and it's entirely possible that they're both currently too lost in the moment and too angry and frustrated to see the inevitability of what is happening.

There will never be a time when one of them will be able to definitively blame the other. They move rapidly and simultaneously, both of them wildly angry, both of them utterly fearless, and it isn't altogether clear which of them is the more ferocious as they seize hold of each other. Boyd has the advantage of brute strength, but Grace is a far more subtle creature and she easily turns his physical superiority against him, exulting in it instead of cowering away from it. Who's got the upper hand is irrelevant, as irrelevant as who's kissing who more fiercely, as irrelevant as whose hand is where and who's doing what to whom. Fleetingly, Grace recognises she's got one hand tangled in his hair, and the other – inexplicably – under his shirt, but that particular moment of clarity doesn't last more than a heartbeat.

Maybe there should be some kind of discussion between them, but there isn't. Perhaps there isn't a question in the world that wouldn't be completely immaterial in such circumstances.

Grace doesn't think they'll make it to the bedroom, and they don't. It's only by chance that they make it as far as the living room. And it's very far from a fairytale, that first reckless encounter, because there's the inevitable awkwardness of first-time lovers, and there's age, impetuosity and imperfection. But it's all good because there's also heat and sweat, and passion. It's good because it's hungry, unrehearsed and real, and when Boyd, chest and shoulders gleaming in the half-light, instinctively throws his head back as he fights desperately for control, Grace doesn't think she's ever seen anything quite so glorious.

He breaks, she breaks, and the last vestige of any line between them breaks. And for those few moments everything between them is the way it should always have been.

-oOo-

"Do you have to look quite so smug?" Grace asks him in fond, gentle amusement, much later.

Boyd stretches, reminding her forcibly of a great, lazy cat. Fortunately for them both, the gentle lighting from the twin table lamps is extremely flattering, and when he flexes the shadows that catch him conspire to cast him in strong, muscular lines. Maybe it's mostly a trick of the light, given his age, but Grace doesn't actually care. When the answer comes, it comes as a languid and faintly self-satisfied, "Actually, yes. Yes, I do."

Grace laughs softly. She shifts position just a little, settles more comfortably against the padded arm of the sofa. A slight, suspicious twinge of pain suggests that attempting to make it up the stairs and into the bedroom might have been a little more sensible, after all. If not for the first round of engagement, then definitely for the second. And that thought makes her feel just a little bit smug herself. Clearly, she thinks with an inward smile, Boyd is right. There is life in the old girl yet. Somehow she's ended up wearing his shirt, so she can't really attempt to tell herself that it's a stray draught in the room that causes a momentary shiver up and down her spine.

The man himself is sitting on the floor, bare legs extended, head tipped back to rest against her thigh. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady. Somehow it doesn't really surprise Grace that she has yet to see any hint of self-consciousness in Boyd, despite his current, conspicuous absence of clothing. She's had the shirt off his back, quite literally. And she's certainly not complaining about the subsequent view. Not at all.

"Look at the state of my living room," she says, hurriedly trying to redirect her thoughts. She eyes the discarded clothing, the scattered cushions and the empty glasses. "How do you manage to create such chaos wherever you go?"

"Years of practice."

"Boyd… Peter…" she says, and chuckles uneasily at her own momentary discomfiture, "God, I don't even know what I'm supposed to call you at a time like this."

"Whatever works for you," he says, eyes still firmly closed. "I'm not going to be precious about it."

"Hm. Well… All I was going to say was, do you think this was a mistake?"

Boyd raises his head, shifts himself round slightly to gaze at her, "No. And you don't either. You're just suffering from… oh, I don't know. You're the bloody psychologist, Grace, you work it out. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

Dryly, Grace says, "You were there – I think you know the answer to that."

"Well, then," he says simply. Then he sighs and pulls himself up to perch on the edge of the sofa next to her. "I knew you'd do this."

She gives him a quizzical look, "Do what?"

Boyd runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back into some kind of order, "Hold a damned post mortem. How many years have we known each other? This wasn't a drunken fumble at the office party that you regret the minute you wake up the next morning."

"Wow. For a moment that was very nearly going to be a profound speech, P… Boyd. Whatever."

"Grace," Boyd says, his tone mild and uncharacteristically tolerant. "Can I point out that one of us seems to be relying on humour to disguise the fact that they're feeling just a little insecure? Whilst the other is simply happy and tired, and yes, just a tiny bit smug."

Grace opens her mouth to protest, then closes it again, realising that he's right. She sighs, "So what happens now?"

He seems to take the question at face value, and he rubs his beard absently as he says, "Well, if you want me to behave like a caveman, I ignore what my back's desperately trying to tell me and I carry you up to bed, where I might make an extremely half-hearted attempt at having my wicked way with you again – "

Grace can't resist it. It's too easy a target. She raises her eyebrows, runs a speculative finger down his long, smooth back and says, "Again? I'm truly impressed, Boyd."

" – but if you want a more metrosexual approach – "

"Is that word even in your dictionary?" Grace asks. He favours her with a look that can only be described as long-suffering. "Sorry. All right, you're right. I'm feeling insecure. It's just – "

"I'm not having this conversation tonight," Boyd says abruptly. He glances at the clock on the wall, "It's past one and I'm too tired not to say something stupid. You want to know what happens now, Grace? Well, unless you're really hard-hearted enough to kick me out in the middle of the night, we're going to go to bed. And tomorrow morning we'll both feel just a bit sheepish until something pisses me off and I start shouting. And at that point we'll both realise that the world hasn't fallen off its axis just because we've finally got round to fu – "

"Boyd," Grace chides him, more for form's sake than anything else.

"See?" Boyd tells her, sounding triumphant. "Everything's back to normal already."

-oOo-

Grace is used to waking calmly and gradually. She's not used to being jerked awake by the sound of impatient, angry swearing. Reluctantly, she opens her eyes, "Do you really have to make so much noise?"

The reply is curt, "Yes."

"Boyd, what on earth are you doing? It's…" Grace sits up and looks at the clock, "…not even six o'clock."

Boyd seems to have been on a foraging expedition downstairs, because he's fully dressed, even if most of the buttons on his reclaimed shirt are still undone. He also looks far more awake than Grace feels. Gruffly, he says, "And I have a meeting at Scotland Yard at nine-thirty, for which I need to be suited and booted and not looking like I've been sleeping rough under Vauxhall Bridge for a week. Have you seen my keys? Where the fuck are my car keys?"

Despite the rude awakening, despite the cruelty of the hour, Grace starts to laugh. Boyd glares at her, brows drawn together. "What? What's so bloody funny?"

"Nothing," she says, still chuckling. "Nothing at all. Stop. Calm down. I'll find your keys for you."

He starts to bristle, saying, "You're laughing at me. Why are you laughing at me? Christ, am I a comedian now?"

"Calm down," Grace says again, getting out of bed. "I'm not laughing at you, Boyd. I'm laughing because you were right. 'Tomorrow we'll feel just a bit sheepish until something pisses me off'…?"

He relaxes slightly, his shoulders dropping, "Oh. Look, I really do have to go, Grace, but I'm not running out on you. Just tell me that when I get back to the office you're going to be there."

Grace nods slowly, says, "I'll be there. But we need to talk."

Boyd looks less than delighted, "Oh, God. Do we really have to?"

"We do," she tells him.

Sounding hopeful, he says, "Can't you just send me a memo, or something?"

Straight-faced, she says, "Well… I suppose I could. Hm, actually that would give me a lot of time to have a long gossip with Stella and Felix. And then maybe I could give Frankie a ring, too…"

There's nothing at all contrived about Boyd's answering grimace. Morosely, he says, "All right, all right. I get the picture. We'll talk. Now for God's sake, woman, I have to go."

With Boyd, it's just a question of knowing which buttons to press.

Grace smiles sweetly at him, "Don't slam the front door on your way out. The neighbours won't like it."

She doesn't miss the quick, amused glint in his eyes. He knows when he's beaten. Without warning, though, he leans in and kisses her, hard and swift. Smugly, "Keys?"

"Keys," Grace says, just a touch flustered. "Downstairs in what used to be my living room…?"

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Looking in the Mirror (continued)**

Nothing in the CCU seems to have changed very much in her absence, which isn't really a surprise, given that she's only been on leave for a fortnight. But for Grace, the moment she walks into the squad room the two week break feels as if it has been far, far longer. Stella gets her a cup of coffee, Felix asks her if she's enjoyed her break, and Spencer grins at her and hands her a stack of files and folders which all apparently need her urgent attention. It's all very normal, all very mundane, and she starts to wonder how she could ever have considered turning her back on it all. She's glad, though, for the make-up that hides the fading cuts and bruises from her unpleasant encounter by the canal – there is no way she could bear the concern and outrage of her younger colleagues. Maybe they will find out about the incident, in the fullness of time, but she hopes not.

Her office is exactly as she left it, apart from the depressing height of the pile of paperwork in her in-tray, and the stack of her own reports that have finally reappeared on her desk. Grace knows without looking that each cover will be tersely annotated in Boyd's jagged, sloping handwriting; that each page will be dutifully initialled; that the official supporting documentation will be accurate, complete and fully signed-off. Paperwork sent to Boyd invariably comes back late, but it always comes back complete in every meticulous detail. She doesn't need to wonder where he finds the time – she knows full well how many hours he works, knows how often he's still at his desk as midnight approaches. It's just another example of his tenacity, his single-mindedness.

She settles behind her own desk, logs on to her computer and checks her email. There, too, amidst the dozens of other messages waiting for her, there is evidence of his dedication to his work. At least two of the emails sent from him are time-stamped well after two in the morning. And when Grace notes the times, a very real sense of unease starts to gnaw at her. Pushing it away, she concentrates on work, concentrates on anything that stops her thinking about all the possibilities she'd briefly allowed herself to imagine not so very many hours before.

In fact, she concentrates so hard that she's oblivious to the passage of time until she hears the loud, vengeful banging of doors that heralds Boyd's arrival. Plainly, from the shouting that starts almost immediately, he is not in a good mood. Which, given where he has been, is as utterly predictable as the sun rising in the east. She watches him from the safety of her office for a few minutes. It's not a luxury Spencer and Stella are afforded, stuck, as they are, in the squad room with him. Spencer appears as stoical as ever in the face of Boyd's temper, but Stella… Well, Stella hasn't been in the unit long enough to have developed the same sort of immunity, and she looks startled and more than a little worried.

It's time, Grace thinks, to intervene, to assume her adopted role as peacemaker, negotiator and unofficial right-hand to_ il duce_. She opens her office door just as the shouting begins to head towards a crescendo. It appears, however, that most of Boyd's diatribe is directed not at his staff, but at his superiors. Calmly, quietly, she leans against the doorframe and gazes at the back of his head, half amused, half resigned. Spencer shoots her a quick, rueful sort of glance and she can't help rolling her eyes in response. They've both known Boyd for far too long to be remotely intimidated by such a predictable sort of outburst.

Without any real intent, Grace speculates quietly on the practical application of some of the things she's learnt in the last twenty-four hours. She wonders what effect standing up on her tiptoes behind him and brushing her lips softly across the far-too sensitive spot at the nape of his neck would have on the tirade. In her admittedly so-far limited experience, it induces an instant and wholly uncharacteristic compliance – turns the fearsome, bad-tempered lion into a great, gentle kitten in the blink of an eye. And she can only begin to imagine how much he would thank her for exposing that particular weakness to anyone. It's an entertaining idea, certainly, but not worth the wrath that would ensue. And she's well-aware of the difference between quietly teasing him and genuinely undermining his authority.

In the end, however, it isn't Grace who intervenes; it's the loud shrilling of the telephone in Boyd's office. With a few final, choice words, he stamps away, sparing her only the briefest and most baleful of looks in passing. He slams his office door hard enough to make its glass panels vibrate ominously.

Spencer looks at his watch, says, "Six minutes, eighteen seconds."

Stella just says, "Damn."

Grace raises her eyebrows, "Sweepstake?"

Spencer grins, "Yeah. Looks like Felix wins again."

No-one is surprised by the roar that goes up from Boyd's office just a few minutes later: "Grace…!"

-oOo-

Many hours pass. The character of the building changes as afternoon turns slowly to evening. Day staff drift away, night staff take up their duties. Even the gloomy domain of the Cold Case Unit changes subtly. It's a time Grace has always liked, the quiet, early-evening limbo when there's hardly anyone around and the phones have stopped ringing incessantly. It's a strange sort of time, caught between the formality of official working hours and the informality of private, personal time.

The tap on her office door doesn't altogether surprise her, nor does the fact that he doesn't wait for an answer before he strolls in and nonchalantly drops into a comfortable chair. She eyes him from the other side of her desk, asks, "Yes…?"

Boyd's tone is resigned, fatalistic, "Go on, then. I'm listening."

Grace shakes her head slightly, "That's not quite how it works, Boyd. This needs to be a two-way conversation."

"It really doesn't," he says. He looks at the ceiling for a moment, then sighs. "All right, have it your way."

"Cards on the table?"

"Cards on the table," he agrees.

"Tell me about last night."

Boyd groans, and the exasperation clearly isn't feigned. He says, "Oh, come on, Grace – I thought we'd already done the whole post-mortem thing?"

"This is different. I need to know… why. That's all. Why?"

He laughs softly, his expression faintly incredulous, "Why do you think?"

Determined not to skirt around the issue, Grace says bluntly, "It was the best way you could think of to get me to change my mind about leaving the unit?"

Boyd stares at her, and she realises – too late – that not only has his expression darkened, but that the look in his eyes has become hard and flinty. She waits for the explosion that doesn't come. In the end, he just stands up and shakes his head, and although his voice is level, completely calm, there's a sharp edge of bitterness to it as he says, "That's what you think? You really think I'd stoop that low? Well, thank you, Grace. Thank you so much for that vote of confidence."

She stands up quickly, "Boyd – "

But he isn't listening. He strides out of her office, grabs his coat and he's gone before she even reaches her office door. Somewhere in the far distance she can hear doors banging. Again.

_Well done, Grace, _a quiet voice in her head says._ So what do you do for an encore…?_

-oOo-

Whether it is years of experience as a psychologist, or just a sixth sense, Grace isn't sure, but she heads for the Hamilton bar near the Royal Court Theatre. The streets are busy, as they always are early in the evening in London, and she takes a few moments to enjoy the sensation of being completely anonymous. The encounter with the teenagers by the canal is starting to feel like a bad and slightly surreal dream. Certainly, she's no longer afraid as she walks alone towards her destination, and no-one spares her a second glance.

The Hamilton is the kind of place that caters for a regular clientele which changes regularly throughout the day. Later, she knows, the early-evening crowd of office workers stopping by on their way home will be replaced by the pre-dinner, pre-theatre crowd, and later still the night owls will move in. It's a shining example of bland mediocrity, and Grace rather likes it for its sullen refusal to move either up or down market.

She sees Boyd the moment she walks through the door. He's sitting alone at the bar, elbows on the counter, drink in front of him, staring at nothing. Other patrons move around him, but none venture too close to the invisible warning perimeter that seems to surround him. He sits very still, almost eerily so. Grace is too far away to tell, but she wonders whether he's even blinking.

From nowhere, she has a minor epiphany, seeing him exactly as the other customers see him. A tall, bearded and very well-dressed man, somewhere in his fifties; broad-shouldered and good-looking in a rugged, rather lupine sort of way. Easy enough on the eye, but detached, completely alone; totally isolated in the crowd.

Grace walks across to him, seeing him catch her reflection in the mirror above the optics. He doesn't look round at her, doesn't move at all. She sits herself next to him, taking time to place her bag and arrange her coat, deliberately unhurried.

Still, he doesn't look at her. She says, "Buy a lady a drink?"

Without a word Boyd raises a hand, signals the barman. Smiling at the young man as he comes over, she says, "Just a glass of red wine, thank you."

Silence. The wine duly arrives. Patient as a cat at a mouse hole, Grace waits.

Eventually, "You live round here?"

"No," she says, with complete honesty. "You?"

"No."

"Waiting for someone?"

"No," he says. There's a long pause. "What's your name?"

Deciding just to play along, she replies, "Grace. And you are…?"

Boyd looks at her then, expression completely unreadable. He extends his hand, "Peter. Pleased to meet you, Grace."

She shakes his hand solemnly, tries not to focus on the warmth of his skin or the strength of his fingers. She notices, for the first time in a very long while, how very grey he's actually gone, and how much of his beard and how much of what used to be iron grey at his temples are now silver. She says, "What do you do for a living, Peter? Lawyer?"

"Police officer," he tells her. "Detective Superintendent. You?"

"I'm a psychologist."

"Married?"

Grace shakes her head. "You?"

"Not for a long time."

"Girlfriend?"

"No," he says, returning his gaze to the drink in front of him. "What about you, Grace? Is there a partner waiting at home? A steady, reliable sort of bloke who buys you flowers and washes the car every Sunday morning?"

"No," Grace says. She takes a sip of her wine. "There might be a man, but it's complicated."

"Yeah?"

She watches him carefully, mentally tosses a coin. Heads or tails? Heads. Time to be brave and take the gamble. Knowing she's approaching a potentially very dangerous place, she says, "He's my boss. But that's not really the problem."

Boyd doesn't twitch, carries on his steady scrutiny of his glass, "Is he married?"

"Only to his job. Which is okay. No, the problem is he's a very damaged, very angry man. Lots of issues, lots of baggage. Never really seems to know what he wants; charges through life like a bull in a china shop, thinks shouting is the answer to everything. Won't listen to the people who care about him. Doesn't know how to rest, how to relax. Drives people too hard, and himself even harder."

"Not worth the effort," he says dismissively. "You're too good for him."

"Yes, I'm starting to realise that's what he thinks, too, and maybe that's half the problem," Grace says, just a touch wryly. She finishes her wine, gathers her things. "I should go. It was nice to meet you, Peter. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Grace."

She doesn't want to look back, but as she opens the door to the street, the temptation is too great. Boyd hasn't moved, is still sitting in his island of space, staring into the mid-distance. Quietly, she leaves.

-oOo-

It's raining when she steps out of the tube station, but fortunately she doesn't have too far to walk. The rain's not hard, but it's steady. She won't be sorry to get inside and close the door behind her. She thinks about what to cook, whether or not to tackle the ironing. Banal, ordinary thoughts which are strangely soothing. She turns the corner, starts to walk down the road towards her house. The harsh street lighting makes the wet road dazzle, the pavement shine.

Boyd's car is parked opposite her house, on the other side of the road. Grace isn't sure whether or not she's surprised. Wherever he is, he isn't sitting in the vehicle waiting for her. As she approaches the house she tenses slightly, not trusting him not to startle her by suddenly stepping from the shadows. She relaxes when she sees him leaning up against her front door, coat collar turned up, head down against the rain.

Not sure what rules they're playing by now, Grace decides on a neutral, "Hi."

Boyd lifts his head, gazes at her steadily, "I was beginning to think you'd got lost."

"Public transport," Grace says in explanation, extricating her keys from her bag. Boyd moves away from the door, lets her reach to put the key in the lock before stepping up behind her. He isn't touching her, but she can feel his proximity. It does strange things to her equilibrium, makes her abnormally clumsy as she tries to unlock the door. A surprisingly warm hand settles on hers, steadying it. Which is bad for her heart rate – but not nearly as bad as the fingertips of the other hand that brush lightly against the side of her neck. To her eternal chagrin the gentle touch makes her shiver.

Something in her stomach tightens sharply as she feels his lips trace the path his fingers have just taken, feels the soft prickle of his beard against her neck, forcibly reminding her of the night before. Very close to her ear, his voice says softly, "A bull in a china shop? Really?"

Mercifully, the lock finally ceases all resistance and she gets the front door open. Too quickly, she steps away from him and into the hallway. She tries not to look in the direction of the mirror.

Her voice a fraction too high, she says, "Come in out of the rain, Boyd. Let me get the lights on and then –"

Or not.

Very much like the night before, she isn't sure who's kissing who more urgently, but it doesn't seem to matter very much. There seems to be quite a tangle of coats and bag straps, but that doesn't seem to matter much, either. Nor the fact that her back seems to be pressed hard against the living room door, or that she's fiercely raking her fingers through thick, wet hair that gleams silver in the light spilling into the dark hallway from the street.

They break apart, both breathing heavily.

Sounding hoarse, Boyd says, "If you're going to tell me to go, Grace, you'd better tell me right now."

Grace can feel the incredible tension in him, and she is awed by it. Even after everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours, the fierce arousal she can see reflected in his dark eyes still astounds her. A tiny, sane part of her mind takes over. Maybe he's been right all along and they really don't need to say very much at all, but there is one thing she wants to make quite clear. Holding his gaze, Grace says quietly, "Stay or go, it's up to you. But if you stay, you stay because this means something to you."

The challenge issued, the dice rolled, she mentally holds her breath. It's time to see where the dice come to rest.

Not breaking eye contact, Boyd turns, just enough to catch the front door with his foot, and he determinedly swings it shut. His chin lifts slightly, unconsciously belligerent, a touch defiant. There really isn't anything left that needs to be said. So, without a single word, Grace takes his hand. She's not entirely sure what they are tacitly agreeing to, but she knows it's certainly something worthwhile. He's far from the easiest man in the world, but that doesn't matter, because Grace… Well, Grace isn't afraid to accept the challenge.

In fact, as they silently ascend the stairs together, Grace realises just how much of her recent, crippling fear and insecurity has simply evaporated. She knows full well she's going to be back at her desk the next morning. And every morning after that. And she knows that all the time she can see such intense fire burning in Boyd's eyes she's never going to be afraid to look in the mirror.

She isn't even afraid of the future. Why would she be?

– _the end –_


End file.
